Mix With Bleach
by SharpAngels
Summary: Wounded in an arrancar fight, Sharp is left to... explain a few things to her Bleach fanatic friend who didn't KNOW that she was a SOUL REAPER. Not only that, but there may be a bit more the her past than was expected... T for language, R&R


Okay! This is a rewrite of that god-awful story... Anyways, this was not a single work, it was, in fact, a collaboration with me and my dear friend Scratch Board. It's going to seem confusing, and there may be some stupid parts, but it's going to make A LOT more sense later~ So read, review & enjoy.

Oh, PS. It starts off with my writing then switches to Scratch Board's piece. This will be duly noted by a Scratch's POV insignia.

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><p>If she had to uncover the truth in any way, I sincerely wish it had been uttered from my very own lips, not blatantly throwing her into the cross-fires of my dangerous and hazy past with the very real possibility she could die. But there we were, staged in the spacious, industrial toned entryway to our beloved high school with an arrancar parrying my every attack and her-my dearest friend Scratch-flat on her stomach and immobilized by the crushing weight our spiritual pressure brutally exerted.<p>

"You have got the worst damn timing." I snarled when my zanpakatou rebounded off his own. "You know that?"

He had unnaturally pale skin, a pure ivory that would render any girl jealous, with slate gray eyes that bored into my green. He had hair whiter than his too-white skin, poking up in every-which way. This particular arrancar looked like a cliche ghost; all that was missing was clanking chains he would drag around, preaching of his damnation from earthly objects and a lilting, bone-chilling voice that would send shivers through the very core of your being.

His pale lips spread into a sly grin, concrete eyes sparked with mischief. "Or I'm just incredibly talented at screwing with you."

My battle-sewn rage switched gears into petty annoyance; my expression turned sour as I eyed the cocky arrancar with a cross between murderous intent and an extremely minute twinge of humor. My attacks ceased-momentarily, and a small moment at that-when I stepped away from the small circle we had designated as the battle field. I let my eyes slip back to my poor, stationary friend, a sense of guilt and embarrassment rising within my already-hectic emotions. She shouldn't be have been dragged into my dark past, a night-pitched place she would, being the weak mortal she was, most certainly perish. Scratch was sarcastic and crude, with a hopeless sense of grammar, but she was also too kind to be drawn like a blind moth into my bitter obscurity.

My momentary ceasefire ended with a horrified, shrill scream from my anchored friend. "Behind you!"

I knew I was too late when the arrancar's shadow crossed paths with my own, when the shining silver of his thin katana raced down to the exposed skin at the base if my neck. It was a lost cause, yet my reflexes hoped for a defense logic knew would never come to be; habitually, I raised my own sword in a weak attempt to deflect the attack I knew would land either way.

The splash of my warm, crimson blood on the school's nice and uniform gray carpet told me my efforts had failed.

Scratch let out a blood-curdling scream that echoed around my weary, bloodstained ears, filling my hazy mind with an urgency I lacked when my life and hers rested comfortably on a silver platter, an urgency I had desperately needed to drive this arrancar scourge to the innermost depths of hell.

Wet, sticky blood dripped from a luckily shallow wound at my shoulder, staining my black kimono an ever darker black that matched my murderous demeanor. It was an aura only a pissed swordsman could muster—evil to the very core.

I was always told I was the Mad Hatter's incarnate, the pure embodiment of insanity and madness. No, I didn't have any 'voices' or a bizarre urge to mass-murder, but I did have a peculiar combination of two things that, really, were very insane. One often said I was just stupid—obviously, they weren't exactly a friend. Another said it was just a bluff. But more often then not, I was told I was a strange combination of a sadist and a masochist.

To some extent, it was true; I did enjoy it when my enemies were harmed and the occasional minor injury on the ally side. Not only that, but I really did enjoy my own pain as well. To me, it made me feel _alive_—even the most mortal of wounds sent a rush of adrenaline through my body.

In this case, I was far beyond the masochism I was known for, but deep in the sadist zone, ready to watch that wretched arrancar bleed. "Big mistake."

His coy grin widened, showing snow white teeth. "Come at me."

Even without his baiting, I was rearing to spill scarlet and stain that too-white skin of his, ready to rip him limb from starky limb. "With pleasure." Malice painted onto the canvas of my tone, splashing it with black and burgundy, the colors that fit my killing intent to a t.

I reached a thin hand to the katana embedded in my shoulder; the arrancar caught wind of my intentions, hurriedly ripping his katana from the wound decorating my skin. He jumped away from me, slate eyes still lit with a cocky glare. Blood dripped off the sharp blade he held, tainting more of the school's nice gray carpeting. My hand found it's way to the gash at my shoulder, letting crimson slip through my fingers, warm and sticky as it made bright red streaks on my in-comparison pale hand.

And I couldn't help it—my lips spread into a smile. A distorted, twisted, grotesque imitation of a true smile, but a smile nonetheless. My grip tightened on my blade, white-knuckled as my anticipation for the bloodshed, for the kill, grew.

Rushing into a fight triggers an immense amount of adrenaline to be hurried through all of your veins, so much that it feels like you drank about five tons of coffee, enough caffeine to kill a horse or two. Fight-or-flight didn't apply to me at all—fight was all I knew. I knew precisely what I was doing when my katana sliced through the air with expertise, missing by a mere hair's breadth. I _was _aiming for his throat, but no dice.

"I see you're serious now..." The arrancar forced a strained laugh, awkwardly clenching his katana in front of him, as if it were a huge shield, not a small, insignificant blade. "Maybe it's about time I hightailed it out of here..."  
>"Don't even <em>think <em>about it!" I roared, aiming a broad slash at his chest. My katana merely grazed him, but it was a drawing of blood, so I guess not all was lost. However, he got away...

"I'll call you, kay?" He winked, opening the doorway to Hueco Mundo and stepping away from me and into another world.

A sigh escaped my lips as I ran a tired hand through my hair, ignoring the blood I had carelessly dragged through my blonde locks. Being a sadistic freak really had a way of taking it out of me. Though, I do admit, the wound spilling a continuous stream of blood didn't exactly make this better.

"Are... you okay?" Scratch was finally able to force herself into a sitting position, eyeing me with concerned brown eyes. She was small for a fifteen-year-old—a fact I would never let her live down—with wheat blond hair that barely reached past her shoulders, spilling over a pair of black and blue skullcandys. Her face, though she'll never admit it, was rather feminine, with high cheekbones and a full face.

My attention was diverted from her to my injury, which was _still_ insisting on spilling out more of my life's blood. The truth was, I _wasn't_ okay. Even though I had gotten my day's dose of sadism and pain, I felt like crap. I was worried sick that maybe, just maybe, my past had finally come back to haunt me, the skeletons in my locked closet picking the lock and turning the knob.

"Hey..." She tried again, trying to reach me; it was a lost cause. I was buried deep in my regrets and my horror. "Sharp?"

"Oh, Jesus Christ!"

A new voice threw the first spade of dirt away from my living coffin; I looked up with unfocused eyes, meeting with a different set of brown eyes. It was a man—he bore a black-as-night kimono that contrasted drastically with his orange hair and relatively pale skin. An irritated frown turned his handsome features grim as he strode efficiently to where I stood. "You really can't help getting hurt, can you?"

Scratch was stunned speechless as she stared at the newcomer. Her brown eyes were plates, mouth agape as the man reached my side. "You're... you're..."

It seemed she couldn't form a coherent thought.

The man grabbed my arm, placing it on his shoulder and taking most of my weight. His brown eyes locked with mine momentarily when he spoke again. "You want to explain later, right?"

I nodded tiredly. The effects of not only fighting but losing a good amount of blood was really taking it's toll. Never before had I thought it possible to feel like I was hit by a bus, dropped from a four-story building and shot with a machine gun all at the same time. Alas, I was wrong.

"No, I think you should explain now!" Scratch whined, attempting to stand through my weakening spiritual pressure and failing. She retreated again to her spot on the floor.

"Do you really think that's wise?" The man barked, jerking his head in my direction. "She's half unconscious. She needs to _rest_."

She was quiet for a moment; I almost thought this discussion was over when she finally decided to speak again. "Later then. But for now, what's your name?"

_I _knew she knew full-well who this was, but I _also_ had a sneaking suspicion she thought this was some sort of nightmare—or a pleasant dream, if she wished me ill.

"Ichigo."

The next time I awoke, I was somewhere. I wasn't quite sure _where_, but to me, somewhere is better than being dead. My whole body was stiff and sore, muscles and bones groaning in protest as I slowly—I did remember my shoulder was injured—sat up.

The room was, if I'd ever seen one, Japanese. Rice paper walls suffocated me as if they were made of steel, a bloody futon underneath where my unconscious form previously lay. The sweet smell of wood filled the air, mixing with the crude, metallic scent of my own blood.

"So you're awake, hm?"

Wearily looking up, I watched the man slide open the door, stepping in with his loud, obnoxious wooden sandals. The black kimono he wore was similar to my own, absent only of the crimson I stained it with. A white and green hat sat low on his face, hiding his eyes from me, but not obstructing his smart-ass smirk or the blonde hair that poked out from beneath it.

"Shut up, Urahara." I grumbled crankily, averting my gaze from him. There was just _something_ about Urahara that set my nerves on edge.

"Mm, that's not very nice~" He whined like a five year old being picked on by an older sibling. The grin was still there, plastered on his face—I wanted to get up and smack that damn smile off his bastard face. "After all, I did save your life."

Whatever smart remark I had disappeared; I suppose in technicality it was true, that indeed, he did pull me from the depths of death. It didn't make me lose my malice, though.

A long silence ensued. I wasn't in any hurry to break it, but I could feel Urahara's creepy gaze through that accursed straw hat and it was making me _really_ uncomfortable. Apparently when I was sleeping, _someone_ dressed my wound and my kimono was laying _next _to me. Bandages that were entirely soaked covered the top half of my torso, baring my stomach to this creepy pervert.

"Can you leave?" This was just too much for me. Urahara seemed like the _pedophile_ type to me.

His grin widened. "Why would I do that, your Highness?"

I froze. Every muscle in my body ceased. How did he know? How did this _idiot_ find out?  
>"Stop tormenting Sharp, Urahara." Ichigo's voice boomed as he strode into the room, glaring at the cretin. "Just let it be."<p>

"I was making sure she was feeling better." Urahara waved him off, covering ass as best he could.

Ichigo shot him a look that said he wasn't buying any of that bull shit.

I ignored both of them, standing shakily and grabbing my kimono. The room spun a bit around me, but I hauled ass as fast as I could away from the both of them, the ginger and the idiot who knows more than he should.

Scratch's POV

I didn't expect Sharp to come to class, or for Ichigo to be near here at all, but the substitute for the both of them was disappointing. Of course I'd be stuck _alone_ with the _one_ character in Bleach that I could not stand. Her voice was like nails on a chalkboard, and she talked _a lot_.

Fucking Rukia. Go die. Please.

She kept chattering on and on about 'how nice the school is' and how 'different the culture is' and it was _really_ starting to piss me off. What _cultureI? _We're _America_ for Christ's sake. The only _culture_ we have is fat-asses running around.

"Alright, stop." Finally, I reached the end of my nerves. Rukia blinked her big cow navy eyes at me, batting the lashes like she was some barbie doll. "Can you tell me _anything_."

She shook her head.

I wanted to fucking kill her. Seriously, she needs to just... go jump off a cliff. "You're useless."

Rukia pouted, faking like she was about to cry or something. "Jeepers, that's not very nice. I was told not to; it's not my fault."

"Doesn't change anything." I sighed, glaring at her as if my intense hatred passed along through a gaze could murder her. "You're still _useless_."

"Stop picking on Rukia." A voice said, much closer behind me than I would have thought somebody would be. I was _about_ to bite their shoulder when I got the usual head slap.

"Sharp~" I turned with a smile—she saved me from the goddamned bitch! "You're alive~"

"Thanks for the tone of surprise." She glared at me with steely green eyes. "Of course I'm alive. That wasn't a deadly injury."

"So~ You were bleeding a lot..." I recalled the bizarre puddle of blood, a lot more than a cut like that should produce. What was this, an anime where everybody's got eighty bajillion gallons of blood?

"Yeah. And?"

"And what? You still coulda died." A pouty face worked it's way to my face. "You woulda left me with this useless thing."

"Excuse me?" Rukia looked bogusly hurt, sniffing like she was about to cry again. God, she pissed me off.

"You heard me."

"Guys, knock it off." Sharp slapped the back of _both_ our heads; Rukia looked like her father had just hit her while I took it in stride.

"You try lasting with her." Another scowl was aimed for Rukia.

Sharp shook her head. "I've lasted much worse. Or did you forget about Renji, Ikaku, Kenpachi, Yumichika, Rangiku, Mayuri—"

"I get it."

"Anyways, now isn't the time to talk about _any _of this." Sharp glanced around the now very-silent classroom, dozens of eyes trained on us and our peculiar conversation. I nodded in agreement; it was likely nobody in this classroom knew about Bleach even as a manga, let alone accepting it existed.

Speaking of which, did I really accept it? Sure, it was a lot to take in, and it was a _huge_ surprise that my _best friend_, with whom I talked about Bleach with _all the time_, was a _FUCKING SOUL REAPER! _God, I musta sounded like an idiot! But how _long_ has this been going on? I mean, she couldn't have... died or something... Did she?

"Agreed." Rukia nodded, eyeing our suddenly interested class.

"Wait..." I paused, not quite sure how to phrase this. If I said this wrong, Sharp would murder me. If I didn't ask, I wouldn't have the immense satisfaction of her reaction.

"Are you trying to get out of here 'cause Mr. Kingman's looking at you?"

Sharp blushed. She seriously blushed. Her green eyes looked like a deer in the headlights. She looked away, clearing her throat. "N-no. I just think that we shouldn't t-talk about this in front of other people..."

"Wait!" A new voice piped in. I recognized this voice, and I knew Sharp did too. One lone guy stood from his desk at the front of the room, his _beloved_ squeaky desk, and walked over to us. He was grinning like he knew something nobody else did, flipping his mahogany hair out of his face for no apparent reason, green eyes sparked with a _constant_ mischief and a pervertedness on par with the great pedobear himself. The guy stopped in front of Sharp, staring her down without even a _glance_ to her chest (and to that, I must commend him) and watching her face go red.

I stifled a laugh when he leaned over to her ear, whispering _very _loud: "Who's Mr. Kingman?"

Sharp's face was a deep scarlet, the room dead silent. I smirked, deciding to have a little fun with my awkwardly crushing friend. "Yeah, _who's Mr. Kingman_?"

She glared at me as if it would throw daggers she couldn't bring into school. "Nobody."

The guy frowned. "C'mon! Tell me~"

"It's nobody, okay?" I had to feel bad for Sharp at some point, being the shy little butt munch she was, but this was _way_ too funny to stop.

"Aw, tell me~ Tell me Sharp, I wanna know!" He grinned like he was inadvertently flirting, which only made this whole scenario even _more_ hilarious.

She seemed genuinely and extremely surprised at the mention of her name. "You know my name?"

The guy nodded slowly, as if this were blatantly obvious. "Yeah...? Who doesn't?"

"You'd be surprised."

He shook his head, focusing back on what he _originally_ was concerned with. "So...?"

Sharp seemed to finally get her wits about her, though I still think she was fangirling about the fact the Great Drake Bakke knew her name. "Well, the only thing I can tell you is he's in this class." She spun on her heel, turning tail to get out of there.

"Nuh uh!" I lunged for her arm, gripping it like it was freaking life support. "You're not gonna leave just because you were interrogated!"

Normally, Sharp would have fought my grip and left anyways, but something was holding her back and when she spoke next, it was high-pitched and strained. "Please... let go. That hurts."

I was suddenly reminded about her injured shoulder; I sulked, putting on my best pouty face. "Walk it off, you Mary Sue!"

"Ow." Sharp hissed, reaching a hand to her shoulder. "I think it's bleeding again, too."

"Walk. It. Off."

A dirty look was thrown my way as my friend sat in one of the few empty desks. "Anyways, where's the teacher?"

And nobody could answer her. Looks like everybody forgot about dear Mr. Martinez.


End file.
